Specious Logic
by ArceusGPG
Summary: If you're still alive, I want you to know that I haven't forgotten. You may have deceived them, but not me. I will find you. These three detectives will bring you to justice, you'll see.
1. Prologue

Is it not interesting that a created being reflects its origins? A child, though boasting unique qualities, carries the likeness of its two creators. In a similar vein, a seed will bear its corresponding fruit, even if propagating in a field of weeds.

Thus, all existence imitates its beginnings, for better or for worse. Even the future, in its unwritten state, must share qualities with the past. This is the curse of nature- to live as its predecessors did, repeating its mistakes and reliving its failures.

* * *

_Silent. The night was silent. _A dark silhouette was pressed against the wall, barely breathing. In the murk, the figure could not be mistaken for anything but a shadow- if shadows could grin with malicious intent.

_Still. The world was still._ The usual noise-makers held their peace, revering the moment's hushed anticipation. Even the wind, despite its restless nature, made no inclination to move. Thanks to its inactivity, the air had grown rank, like undisturbed waters allowed to stagnate.

_Disturbed. The soul was disturbed. _Clumsy footsteps shattered the holy silence, expelling the illusion of peace. Two squinting eyes focused intensely on its target, never blinking in steadfast resolution. Death itself could not falter less in its persistence, for nothing could hope to stand between the predator and its prey.

_Frightened. The victim was frightened._ He was nervous, and rightfully so. It takes a lot of courage to venture out on a moonless night... alone. Though his step was brash in nature, trained observers could see the discomfort he displayed in each deceptive stride. He clearly felt out of place in the encompassing darkness, exposed even, as the coward he truly was.

_Threatened. The safety was threatened._ Quagsire suddenly stopped, aware that he was being watched. His empty grin made its last departure, replaced by an expression of horrible uneasiness. His tiny eyes darted back and forth nervously, searching for the source of his mental discomfort. Finally breaking the vow of immobility, the fiend stepped out of its place of hiding.

_Recognized. The murderer was recognized._ The approach was not unnoticed by the water fish. Fear overtook the blue creature, hijacking his mind, rendering him helpless. He reeled back in horror, pointing a fin-like arm at the emerging figure.

"You!" he cried, shaking violently. "You shouldn't be here! You're... you're..."

The monster smiled, enjoying the confusion its sudden appearance caused. It stood before Quagsire, never moving, never swaying, completely silent- just like the night.

In a requiem of quiet anguish, fear played its definitive, abrasive melody. A harmony of mournful cries echoed in the empty halls of ruin, but were drowned out by the screams of agony.

_Taken. The life was taken._

**Author's Note: **

**Though hackneyed, the archetypes scattered throughout the passage serve a purpose. They will be addressed on a deeper level (beyond their cheap abuse) at a later point. It should be remembered that the purpose of this section is to not only establish the existence of a problem, but also set the tone for the rest of the fictional work.**


	2. Chapter 1: Kadabra's Conflict

With knowledge comes undue responsibility. While in ignorance and darkness, suffering does not exist. It is simply an abstract idea, holding no significance until brought to revealing light.

As the horrors of reality are demonstrated in thought and practice, the burden of fighting against wickedness rests on the shoulders of those wise to its ways. To knowingly allow evil to spread is to condone its actions; thus any action not taken against evil is just as abominable as the act itself.

Therefore, the greatest evil is not found in the guilt of the cause, but in the heartlessness of the onlookers who never find enough compassion to interfere.

* * *

"By your logic, every moment not devoted entirely to the abolition of suffering is a crime against life itself."

Gardevoir considered my statement, closing her eyes in an outward display of inner focus. She nodded her head in time with the slow, subtle tempo of nature. Instead of replying right away, she kept herself reserved to merely pondering the questions that would arise from her answers.

Like a game of chess, conversation requires that every statement be both intentional and purposeful. Improper placement of a piece or argument costs more than a turn- it gives an opportunity for the other side to take advantage of a weakened position. When discussing philosophies involving the nature of "good" and "evil", there's a tendency for the two of us to see each other as adversaries, instead of a student and teacher.

She was a good teacher, that much could not be denied. Her devotion to wisdom was only surpassed by her undying love for life. She appreciated both the tender and fierce forms of nature, offering admiration ascending simple respect. As if she could communicate in a verdant language, the landscape bent to her unassuming will, forming paths for her graceful tread.

Guarding The Sanctuary seemed to be her perfect niche, almost eerily so. In the ring of psychics, she was widely considered to be "destined" to fill that role. Although superstitious in its concept, Gardevoir seemed to accept this belief as fact, dutifully protecting the world she knew with stalwart passion.

The Sanctuary was tranquil, as if content with its state of being. Gentle puffs of wind passed by, generously refreshing the atmosphere with the pleasant fragrances of cultivated herbs. The heavens were unmarred by even the slightest wisp of darkened cloud, instead boasting a brilliant blue. The sun, not forbearing to display its brilliance was taking advantage of the empty expanse, reminding the earthly beings of its celestial superiority.

Even the most seasoned explorer of pristine landscapes would have to pause in wonder at the magnificence of The Sanctuary, for, in my mind, nothing could compare to the meek but potent presence of absolute tranquility. Peace's value is oft underestimated in a fast-paced world of demands. That is why The Sanctuary was established in the first place- as a rest from the tempest of daily life.

I sighed. It was not sigh of discontent, but one expelled from careful concentration. Whenever I am in this condition, I tend to twist my left mustache, an old habit I barely notice myself doing. With my right hand clutching a polished spoon, I would keep both of my restless hands busy with the pointless task of fidgeting. Perhaps my body was dissatisfied with inactivity and simply seeking a venue in which to move.

I sat in the cool grass, my back to the vanity of sunlight. Gardevoir stood perched atop the stone altar: Verity's symbol of stability, intentionally placed in the center of the garden. As a smooth cube of tempered rock, its nearly-perfect symmetry and nearly-perfect shape made it both a reliable landmark and a source of comfort for those seeking order. Inscribed on its face was one word: _Ideals_.

That was her favorite spot. As planets surround stars, so the flora would surround the altar, some bending on one knee in worship. Even Verity, the city encircling this park, seemed to raise tall structures for the purpose of the rock's protection, rather than its own expansion. I often wondered if the stone's perfection deserved the reverence it received, for our hands could produce such a work with relative ease. Was it any more perfect because it was produced by the waves of chance? The world untainted by the creatures of proven consciousness is by no means sacrosanct, but is it more orderly?

While thinking these thoughts to myself, at long last, Gardevoir opened her eyes and looked steadily into mine. Her dark red irises were the familiar hues of blood, and almost seemed to flow with the same vitality- for blood in its proper vessel is a wellspring of life. This color was also present in the two fins protruding from her chest and back which, to my knowledge, served no biological purpose whatsoever.

The way those fins were positioned though, it would almost seem that she were being impaled by some semi-circular object. I never found that to be humorous.

She addressed my earlier statement carefully, sometimes pausing between words to collect and project her thoughts in a more organized fashion.

"Wholehearted devotion to a cause differs from continuously attacking its offenders. Do not believe that by removing the problem you have removed the source. Symptoms are much easier to cure than conditions."

My left claw kept twirling my mustache, letting her know that my thoughts were both consuming and relevant. Whenever I cease to think critically, the habit suddenly disappears.

"Then how do you propose we address the issue at its root? Would it not be wise to kill a weed in an early stage, before it chokes out the surrounding plant life, and spreads its kind?"

Gardevoir would understand the analogy better than anyone, as sole protector of this cherished garden. I falsely believed that her response would be delayed due to her thoughtful disposition.

"Who are you to judge which being deserves life?" she quickly retorted. "Every creature, every plant, must struggle to survive. Every breath you take is taking air from those around you; your steps have crushed many blades of grass without provocation, and yet you believe that weeds are evil? Be wary of any doctrine that gives the power of life and death to those without understanding."

* * *

_Any doctrine, my teacher? What about the acceptance of reality?_

As I left the perfect garden behind me, the juxtaposition became clearer. Beyond Gardevoir's realm was an impoverished world, afflicted with three incurable diseases: Corruption, Oppression, and Suffering. They are three permanent residents, and the unwanted tenants in the rooms of every building.

As a detective, I've seen my fair share of evil. It spills out of us, like the blood and filth from the bodies of the dying. That is why I, Kadabra, am burdened with the responsibility of purging the world of injustice- one criminal at a time.

Though the line between right and wrong is often blurred, I refuse to accept the turmoil of conflicting views as truth. One truth must prevail, and that is found in the strongest opinion, held by the strongest being. This is God.

And God is never wrong.

**Author's Note: Kadabra's perspective will often be filled with symbolism and allegorical elements, so when reading chapters such as these, not everything should be taken too literally.**


	3. Chapter 2: Banette's Pain

The thirst for revenge is such a strange beast. While maintaining many forms, its purpose remains the same- to eat its host from the inside out. The parasite feeds off of bitterness, twisting the original perceptions of innocence and defiling the sanctity of morality.

When it latches onto the brain, the first thing it always does is inject a sweet stream of justification, mostly to keep its victim numb. Revenge is never wrong. No, it is necessary. Always necessary.

Intoxicated with romanticized delusions of ultimate fulfillment, they give themselves permission to commit unspeakable atrocities. The mind feeds the monster its own precious sanity, and the monster feeds the mind its comforting lies.

The relationship, however, is far from beneficial.

* * *

Darkness and pain are my only friends; they won't abandon me, even when I wish them to. Their presence reminds me that I am alone in this selfish universe.

_I'm on my own_!

Solitude.

Oh, I know that experience well. It tears the soul apart, until there's nothing left but raw hatred for those who've forgotten you.

She knew I was alive; and that's why she loved me the way only a child could.

_She knew I was alive_!

Then she threw me out.

_Damn bitch_!

Apparently she outgrew loving me, and I was just getting in her way.

_I wasn't good enough for her_!

Years of wear-and-tear tore at my tethered cloth, slowly unthreading my being.

_Oh, how that hurts_!

But I never complained; I loved her too much to do so. Instead, I held my weakening grin, holding the short moments we spent together as something to live for.

_What do I have to live for now_?! _How could she do this to me_?!

After years of hopeless darkness and years of endless pain, I'm ready to share some of it with everyone else.

_They deserve it. They don't know what it's like, but I'll make them understand._

* * *

My hands found both of his ears. Holding them tightly, I began to pull them apart.

"Start talking, Meowth, or this is going to hurt."

He howled in pain as the stretching continued. His arms and legs flailed about uselessly, a pathetic attempt to fight against his helpless condition.

"I don' know noth'n', Banette!_ I swear_!"

The filthy brat was asking for the third degree. Here he was, half my size, and he thought that he could tease me with a new clue. Maybe he didn't think I would take things this far. Stupid, stupid cat.

I lifted him by his two ears, suspending him in the air. He dangled like a crane load.

"Where's the goddamn murder scene?"

I kicked his masculinity as hard as I possibly could, sending a wave of pleasure up my spine. It felt good to know I had caused him some more pain. Maybe it would be too much for him, and he'd crack early.

_I hope not_.

His eyes widened in a mixture of pain and horror, as his lungs instinctively sucked in as much air as they would allow. The feline stopped flailing, and moved to clutching his injuries defensively.

This wasn't the time to let up. "Where is it?!"

All the guy did was make a few grunting noises, pretending to be in too much pain to answer. I knew better. I kicked him again.

He howled and scratched at the air with his useless claws, both of which passed right through my body as if I was made of air. To him, I probably was, being a ghost that none of his attacks could affect.

"You fu- fucking bitch!" he managed to spit before my foot smashed into him again.

His chest shook violently as he made exaggerated motions that he was about to throw up. I was done kicking him, so I threw him face-first on the ground, still holding his large ears. His ugly mug scraped against the concrete, leaving a bloody smear.

Still pulling on his ears from behind, I put a foot roughly on his neck, fully intending to break it if necessary. Maybe if I kept yanking on his head and twisting his neck, it might paralyze him forever; maybe he might just die. Who the fuck cares? I sure don't.

"Where did last night's murder take place?!"

I tugged on the animal's ears again, snapping his head back. Even though he was pushing against the ground, trying to squirm away, I kept my foot firmly on his neck, smashing down harder every time he struggled.

He began screaming, not from pain, but in fear that his life could end in only a few more seconds. It was a scary thought, and its sudden revelation can cause the entire body to shut down. Meowth though, thought it was better to use his vocal cords as his weapon, in the vain hope that help would come to those loud enough to call for it.

"Stop! Stop!" he begged as a few tears rolled down his face. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Just let go!"

I didn't move. That was his reward for co-operation.

"Where is it?!"

He pushed on the concrete again, hoping that my grip had weakened. I began to punish him again.

"Okay! It's in front of Swanna's Theater! _Swanna's Theater_!"

I let go. Because he was fighting against me, his face fell forward and his nose bashed against the concrete again, making his eyes water up. He'd probably broken it.

As soon as I released him, he scampered off, sniveling like the coward he truly was. Meowth wouldn't return to my alley, not if he valued his miserable life. The little piece of shit knew I was looking for information, and there he goes and tries to sell it to me, as if it were a bargaining tool. Not likely. I don't buy things I can just take.

His whiny voice echoed through the alleyway, bouncing off the bricks like a rubber bouncy-ball. "She's a crazy bitch! She's crazy!"

I sighed contentedly. That was so much fun, causing him to suffer like that. I was tempted just to keep him around as a plaything, but that wouldn't be as good. It was only enjoyable if they thought they had a chance to escape.

With my high completely gone, I bent down and picked up a rusty, old nail. I needed to feel the pleasure again, even if it meant hurting myself instead. Pain is pain, and pain is good regardless of its source or victim.

I clutched my old friend tightly, reminding myself of its simple, yet beautiful design: one end is sharp, the other dull, but edged. That's perfect for cutting flimsy materials, like cloth or skin. That's perfect for _me_.

I let the point scrape against my fraying cloth. I often cut the material holding me together- an old habit that is literally tearing me apart. But I don't care- I'm eternal, not affected by the condition of my container. As long as my spirit holds the thread in its grip, the fabric will stay together.

I jabbed the nail into my arm like a syringe, and kept it there as I began lumbering to Swanna's Theater. If what the cat says is true, then this new investigation may get pretty interesting.

**Author's Note: Meet Banette, the ruthless interrogator. Although she may recognize her own faults, she seems to have no intention of changing her ways. In fact, she's embraced her darker side with open arms. As a ghost, normal-type attacks such as Scratch have no effect on her. She cannot, however, move through walls or anything of that nature, being made of cloth.**


	4. Chapter 3: Ditto's Mischief

Much of us changes with the passing of time, but what remains untouched?

Nothing.

Matter and Energy are constantly in motion. Our existence fades in and fades out. Even abstract ideas evolve to fit our needs.

So why do we persist on maintaining order, as if it is a thing of necessary permanence? Change is an intentional movement toward balance, a will found in all objects, animate or otherwise, to adjust to its surroundings. Ironically, this motion toward disorder is nature's method of attaining the equilibrium that constantly eludes it.

In short, nothing is content- we are not content- without chaos. Every life creates chaos; every life _needs_ chaos. In that way, we are the embodiment of change, vessels of turmoil in this ever-shifting world.

That is why everything is new, and why everything is temporary.

* * *

I had to suppress my laughter. It was all too much!

Igglybuff was bouncing around the room, like a balloon with most of its helium lost. He giggled happily as his body bounced against the floor and sprung back into the air. Between fits of joyful laughter, he was barely able to say his thanks.

"Oh, you guys! I love you two_ sooo_ much!"

He looked like he wanted to hug both of us, but his arms were too short to even try. So instead, he gave us the biggest grin possible, hoping to spread some of his happiness with us.

"This is the best! With this bar of gold, we could probably feed _hundreds_ of starving Pokémon."

I glanced down at the Hitmontop beside me, who was smiling as well. I seemed to be the only one in the bright pink room dissatisfied with the current situation. I tried not to let my feelings show, since that would quickly give me away. Instead, I forced a halfhearted grin and crossed my arms, like a Machamp normally would.

Igglybuff floated over to his little trampoline and began bouncing on it, never bothering to land on his stubby feet. He giggled every time his face hit the surface, not even phased by the discomfort one would normally feel from such an act.

He was just like a child, that Igglybuff. He could fall down and get right back up again without even thinking about it. It was admirable, in a way. At the same time, his body was completely hollow, so when he did fall, he made tiny squeaking noises that probably would have been cute if they didn't occur so often.

Igglybuff also seemed to notice this, and would sometimes form his mouth into different shapes to produce different notes. He was like a walking orchestra- an annoyingly cheerful orchestra without a conductor to keep him from playing by himself. To him, the world just needed some cheering up, and then everyone would be happy. I could never understand how a Pokémon with such blind, naïve optimism could have become such a wealthy, prominent philanthropist.

I don't steal from the impoverished, after all. This guy was loaded. The mansion we were in would be sufficient proof of that.

The rooms themselves were far from ornate, but as a whole, Igglybuff had a palace on his hands, and I'm pretty sure most of his estate was underground too. Every single room was childishly designed, intentionally created to look like a playroom or something. The hallways, instead of framing notable works by distinguished artists, were hanging sloppy paintings no doubt drawn by little babies. I think Igglybuff contributed to his supply of messy pictures too, since the guy loved to paint with his short little arms. It was too bad the little fella couldn't balance himself and would always trip and splash goop everywhere.

The rooms had toys scattered all over the place. He refused to let anyone clean them, so the floor looked like a battlefield of colorful action figures and bouncy balls. Thankfully the hallways were clear, but I had to be careful when walking into a new room. Igglybuff enforced a strict "no mean or bad words" policy everywhere he went, which meant I couldn't swear if I stepped on a plastic soldier, even if it hurt like hell.

The walls were probably the most offensive and gaudy abomination to have ever existed. They were mostly pink, but had random, conflicting patterns of splashes, spots, and stripes, all in colors that would never willingly exist together.

The worst part wasn't in the sugar rush of eye candy- it was that he expected his bodyguards to be happy. _Happy, happy, happy_. It made me want to scream. The guy was absolutely determined to make everyone laugh, which was pretty much the opposite of what I wanted to do.

I can't explain to him why I don't want to laugh though- that would be stupid of me. I just needed to keep a straight face until I had the chance to take the goods and run.

"_Oh_! I have an idea! Let's go get some ice cream to celebrate! _Ice cream_! _Ice cream_!"

He waved his arms excitedly at the thought of eating sweets. He jumped down from his trampoline and waddled to the door, leaving the ingot of gold sitting there on the plastic picnic table.

I swear, he had to be the biggest idiot in the world. He was just _asking_ to get stolen from.

"Let's go get ice cream, c'mon!"

Hitmontop followed behind him, walking on all three of his freakish legs. His stride was always unnatural, unable to shift his weight evenly between his feet; he had probably spent too much time upside down to look normal.

I trailed behind, waiting for the opportunity to change again. I just needed a few seconds alone, and then I would be home-free. Just a few seconds...

Hitmontop and Igglybuff left the room and turned the corner, barely noticing my disappearance. Perfect.

With practiced skill, I let my whole body relax. What was once a Machamp began to melt into pink goop. My arms collapsed into my body and my legs melted beneath me, causing me to sink down to the ground level. My old head began liquefying itself, like Igglybuff's ice cream after I purposely left it out in the sun. Then finally, two little eyes and a mouth appeared on the glop, revealing a mischievous face that couldn't hold back his enormous grin.

I giggled softly to myself. "Gotcha!"

I sprung up on the plastic picnic table and popped the gold bar into my mouth, swallowing it whole. Then I jumped down and quickly scanned the room for a toy big enough for me to keep the gold inside.

My gaze quickly fell on stuffed teddy bear. Good enough.

I focused on the bear, letting my mind get accustomed to its shape. As its qualities became clearer and clearer in my head, my body began to change. Two brown, fuzzy arms grew out of my face, with some short, stubby legs appearing afterward. A head became discernible from a torso, quickly forming into their proper shapes and textures.

Within seconds, the transformation into an inanimate object was complete. Best of all, the bar of gold was safely nestled inside my stuffing, a hiding place that not even Hitmontop would check.

All I had to do was stop myself from laughing. That's it. As long as I didn't laugh, I couldn't be discovered.

"Hey, _Machamp_! Where are ya, buddy?"

Igglybuff bounced into the room, searching for his lost friend. Too bad he was looking in the wrong place- the real Machamp was probably in the bathroom shitting out his guts. That's what happens when you eat too many laxatives, after all. Hey, the guy should have watched his food a lot more carefully, so it was his fault anyway.

"Machamp? Are you playing hide and seek?"

He looked at the empty table and gasped in horror. Oh, if only I had a camera to capture that moment.

"The gold is missing!" he cried. "Oh no! The _starving Pokémon_! This is bad!_ No!_ _Bad!_"

**Author's Note: Ditto, at least in this fan fiction, can not only transform into other Pokémon but also inanimate objects, regardless of how large. However, he cannot increase his mass, only his density, chemical composition, and other similar attributes. In order to "grow" to large sizes, he would have to "stretch" out his body. That means that regardless of the durability or "defense" he may gain depending on the object or Pokémon, he still has the same health points.**


	5. Chapter 4: Kadabra's Rest

Imagine- living in a world where the expanse above changes color depending on the weather, that water sporadically falls from the sky, or that the world changes drastically because of the time of year. Think about how magnets can move without anything touching them, or that tiny specks of light that shine above are powered only by themselves, or that every form of life exhibits a will.

Pause for a moment and marvel at how much there is left to discover or rediscover. From the infinite of the small to the infinite of the grand, this universe promises challenges to those searching for them, knowledge to those without it, and even power to those seeking it. The imagination is as reality- its limits are defined by our will and the time we're given to enjoy life as it comes.

How wonderful it is to feel, to know, to do! This... is reality.

* * *

Verity is not the sort of place that I wish to live in. Poverty and hunger continued playing games with the city's lives, torturing the once-innocent residents with false promises of relief. Their wild sport desolated the masses, driving them to petty crime just to survive in the stricken landscape.

The streets were lined with hunched-over vagabonds, those apparently unworthy of love or respect, thrown to the harsh realities and left to die. Their heads were downcast, hiding themselves in hopeless shame, forced to accept the reality they were given. I can't even bear to look into their empty eyes anymore- their jagged pupils and expressions of incurable pain tear at my weakening resolution. To know that my life, though imperfect in many regards, still had the necessities that were beyond their grasp, which only reminded me of my inherit selfishness.

Many walls were stained with the blood of those caught in spontaneous gang fights- conflicts that were occurring more often as of late. The sanitation department was in charge of cleaning up the sidewalks, not the walls, so the evidence of brutal deaths remained there as the only morbid reminder of the lost lives. A walk down the street was a trip to a macabre modern art display, where various means of death were immortalized on the brickwork.

The cold-blooded murders mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. The authorities never even bothered investigating the causes, at least not unless a reward was given for the capture of the instigator. Most of the criminal activities were actually monitored by the local factions, who tortured and killed the perpetrators accordingly, provided that the victim was paying their dues.

The city of Verity was technically controlled by an elected body of council-leaders who managed the major civic responsibilities. In reality, however, the place was controlled by two feuding gangs- Candor and Essence, controlled by Electivire and Haxorus respectively. Both criminal leaders were notorious for their brutal methods and tremendous wealth. In fact, they were the two wealthiest people in Verity, except for the five "philanthropists" who took it upon themselves to live in comfort while the rest of the world starved to death.

Those selfish bastards sickened me, with their luxurious mansions, taunting a world without hope, a world they pretended to help while they greedily consumed the "donations". Rumor had it that a few of them were directly involved with the two gangs, and were even directly funding their activities. I wouldn't be surprised if those rumors were true; hell, I wouldn't be surprised if they were the ones going into the streets and splattering some of the brains against the concrete.

Verity was an inescapable battlefield, a world of our own creation, twisted by our corrupted design. The city stands as the only inescapable prison to ever have existed, and its walls reached beyond the sky. Not a single being, great or small, has ever been able to escape from the harsh reality of the world's boundaries. It is the only brute fact capable of defying the principle of sufficient reason, and its tangible nature drives the mind to the brink of insanity. To know that there is nothing beyond this disgusting city- that there is no options available to us- is depressing to even think about.

Maybe that's why I don't feel happy- I'm too often questioning this reality I've been assigned.

I twisted the left side of my mustache with a new fervency. My feet had carried me into an unfamiliar environment, and I needed a quiet place to meditate and recharge my proverbial batteries. I could live for weeks without food, but rest, I needed that at all possible moments.

My eyes rose to meet the signs hanging above the buildings. Judging by the names, most establishments were less than upstanding, advertising fulfillment for the more bestial instincts. There were a surprisingly large number of respectable names, leading me to believe that they were there before the other businesses decimated their property values. Swanna's Theater, for instance, was the name of a well-to-do chain of stages for performing arts. Here it was, though, stuck between a dirty bar and a strip club, no doubt gathering more hecklers than fans. It was a wonder that it wasn't boarded up by now, but it probably made its money somehow.

There was actually a large crowd gathered in front of the place, which was rather surprising. Even more surprising, though, was the way they acted, not as rowdy or uneducated ruffians, but as solemn, intelligent professionals. The characters looked suspiciously out-of-place, enough so that it made me stop and stare.

There was nothing different about the theater, at least not compared to the others I had seen. It was a two-story brick building with darkened windows blocking out the curious street-dwellers, but still announcing its presence with a large neon sign that seemed to have been turned off. On the front of the door was a small "Help Wanted" sign, which I attributed to some of the crowd's appearance.

I half-considered going into the theater myself, just to see if there was some real work available, but I knew that would be foolish to do. I would have to do proper research before committing to any job, no matter how innocent or monotonous it seemed. Sometimes joining a company meant joining a gang, and I had no interest in chaining myself to an early death.

My tired legs carried me past the crowd of whisperers, ignoring their ominous presence without another thought. Other thoughts were beginning to attack me, and I wasn't sure all of them were my own. I needed rest rather desperately, or my mind's defenses would start crumbling.

My pace quickened in new desperation, pushing aside the nameless faces of untold stories. The spoon, tightly held in my right hand, began bending under the psychic pressure, signaling that time was running short. What began as a casual jaunt quickly evolved into a mad dash. I stopped twisting my mustache to extend a trembling claw in front of me, shoving those unlucky enough to stand in my way. I muttered exasperated apologies to those individuals, but never looked back.

"I'm sorry, please move. Excuse me. Sorry about that."

The passing Pokémon became a mesh of melting colors as I broke into a frenzied sprint for a place to hide. Charmander and Arbok became a streak of orange and yellow, while Banette remained as a dark smudge. Words and phrases swarmed angrily around my head, like wasps with their persistent stings. My eyes darted back and forth as my lungs tried desperately to fill themselves with enough air to fund my exorbitant spending.

At last, my sights rested on a dark alleyway, out of the way of the public eye. Its obscurity provided minimal relief, but enough to convince me that it was the most secure place to begin meditation.

I ducked into the opening and allowed myself to catch my breath. Leaning against the brick wall, I allowed the cool shadows to seep into my skin as I let out a deep sigh. Panting from undue physical exertion, I glanced down at the spoon I held. The silver utensil was trembling violently, fighting against the tremendous force imposed on it, trying to escape from my hold. I was losing control.

There was a gentle choir of scraping noises, like chalk rubbing off on the pavement, except slightly more metallic. The sound seemed to be coming from deeper in the alleyway, and it was slowly moving closer. I bent down to find tiny, metal nails dragging along the ground, apparently attracted to the spoon I held. My powers must have electrically charged it, creating a powerful magnet.

Why were there so many nails on the ground? Was there a broken box of them nearby or something?

There was no time to think; my mind needed rest.

I sat down and began to slow my breath, focusing on distancing myself from reality, and away from the terrible truth.

_In... out... in... out... in... out..._

My eyes closed in bitter surrender as I gave my consciousness away to the sleepless dreams of a counterfeit reality.

**Author's Note: Sometimes perception can alter reality, as much as reality can alter perception. This fact is even more noticable with psychics, who are constantly altering the world around them with their minds.**


	6. Chapter 5: Banette's Encounter

"Value" is the difference between what something is _made of_ and what it _is_. The sun is _made of_ burning gas, but it _is_ the abundant source of all life as we know it. It freely clothes the land with its gracious warmth, feeds the greenery at no expense, illuminates the hopeless darkness without expecting anything in return. Though perhaps not the catalyst of life, it's certainly directly involved in its prosperity.

Notice that its value is not in its composition, but rather in its effect. So... what is the value of a life? What is the effect of a life? Is a life's value dependent on those that it touches or determined by the consequences of its existence? What about the value of a death? Is the cessation of a life part of its legacy?

* * *

So many damn people were looking at me, judging me without my permission. That's why I hate walking out in the open- because their searching eyes were constantly invading my personal space.

I would much rather watch _them_. Their souls were raging storms of uncontrollable pain, kept tame behind the wall of expressionless faces. They couldn't plug all the holes though- their eyes leaked tears of insufferable agony. Sometimes their brittle masks would occasionally crack and reveal the raw flesh underneath. Then society would punish them accordingly, worsening their dilemma.

Society is really good about curing the symptoms of its evil-doing. Oh, it's unbelievable what we've done to ourselves. Lock up the prisoners, swallow those pills, entertain yourself before you start thinking; the mind is built on the trembling pillars of ignorance. No one wants to wake up from a pleasant dream, so when unpleasant elements start creeping in, we just childishly wish them away, as if they're just the monsters of our machinations. We'd rather believe a lie than a painful truth.

Skin is a perfect example of this fact. Animals can hide under skin and ignore their delicate mortality. Remove the skin and they're suddenly forced to realize their precious lives can be taken any moment. Even a small slice can have this effect- especially when their true selves begin to escape their mortal shell, leaking as blood on the cold, cold floor.

I live for that; I live for shattering the illusion, one life at a time. In pain we realize the delicacy of this false reality; we come closer to realizing the unforgiving truth. That's why pain is so easy to find, and so difficult to avoid.

It's strange- the fact that ghosts such as myself can feel pain. It goes to show that even the departed cannot find rest, because nothing can rest in peace. I don't want to rest anyway, not until I taste sweet revenge for this suffering, not until I can smile knowing I've made an example of her.

I kept my fists clenched, enjoying the pain it caused my fibers as the nail dug deeper. If only there were a part of me yet a virgin to pain's embrace... then I could experience the feeling anew. It's such a shame, really, that I've endured every type of self-inflicted agony. I live in the hopes that another will make me feel again, to experience the euphoric rush of a panicked struggle for survival or release.

"Excuse me. Sorry about that."

Kadabra pushed his way past me, giving an abrupt apology as his meager restitution. I was sorely tempted to brand a lesson into his empty head, but I had more important matters to settle. Meowth said that Quagsire was killed under strange circumstances, very strange, in fact. According to him, some people believed that humans were indirectly involved. _That_ was the reason why it interested me.

Oh, if I could get my hands on a human... who knows what sorts of things I could do to them? I remember humans as such fragile creatures, bleeding at the slightest cut, screaming at the slightest burn. Yes, they were a bundle of sensitive nerves and pain receptors. Even better: they took forever to heal. Injuries could sometimes stay with them forever.

Imagine that... an injury that can't heal, even with the best medicines and herbs. How pathetic! How laughable! That's all I want- to cause something permanent. I want to cut something that will bleed forever, to break something that can't be put back together, to die knowing that my footprint has permanently crushed the earth beneath me. I want the pain I cause to last longer than this fabric holding me together.

I wasn't going to find them if I just sat around waiting for them to come to me. Searching for them was the only thing I lived for- the driving force behind my actions. Even thinking about them causes my form to tremble, excited by the promise of exploring new levels of pain, experimenting with the forbidden.

"Hey, miss?" a scratchy robotic voice called out behind me. "You've got a nail in your arm. It looks like it hurts."

I stopped dead in my tracks, standing only a few buildings away from the theater. I pivoted on my foot, spinning around to face the source of my annoyance. Anyone foolish enough to even talk to me without my approval was looking for trouble- big trouble.

My red eyes darted about, searching for the source of the noise. I didn't have to search for very long. Charmander stood on the sidewalk, grinning at me with probably the stupidest face I've ever seen in my life. Just glancing at the little motherfucker made me want to strangle him.

I'm sure many others have tried, judging by the scars covering his body. Several prominent ones ran across his belly, claw marks that seem to have cut deep in the tissue and were never healed with a berry. The idiot must not have restored himself after his last battle, just to look tougher than he actually was, and judging by the scars, his last battle was a long time ago.

Just when I thought I couldn't hate him any more, he lifted up a tiny claw, pointed to my nail, and spoke again.

"Right there. You've got something poking your arm."

I was thrown off by his uncharacteristic voice. Even as a robotic voice, it seemed to be overlaid with multiple voices. One sounded like a bone scraping against concrete, another a final cry for help, and finally a quiet weep cut short. Each word sounded like brutal murder, and each sentence a bloody massacre. His voice was a heavenly choir of pain, as each syllable spoke another terrifying story.

Charmander stood at about two-thirds of my height, but his childish demeanor made him seem much smaller than that. His smirk boasted not only a happiness elusive to me, but also a confidence just as rare. It wasn't a look of tenacity, but of dead certainty that nothing could harm him, as if he were some legendary fallen from heaven. The boy's personal fable was about to end in an unhappy ending.

The fire lizard whipped his tail back and forth smugly, challengingly. Oh, how I wanted to snuff that light, and extinguish that fool's soul, but no, I couldn't do that. Too many unknowns. Too much uncertainty. I would make an example of him later, but for now, I would just have to pretend like nothing was wrong.

"That's right," I answered with glowing, red eyes. "There is a nail stuck into my arm and it hurts_ really badly_."

Charmander uttered a quiet "Oh," as his face suddenly transformed into concern. Even his quiet voice sounded like the groaning of the hungry. "Let me remove that for you. I'm sure-"

"_No!_" I screeched, as I pedaled backwards defensively. "This is _mine_!"

His eyes widened in surprise. "Woah, there. Just wanted to help, that's all."

"Keep your help to yourself!" I snarled, as I ran up to him. Holding my two arms out, I shoved the fire lizard backwards, full-force, causing him to tumble on the sidewalk. His robotic voice gasped in shock as his back scraped against the concrete, probably rubbing away some of his skin. Even when he was gasping for breath, his voice still sounded like a murder in progress. It sounded like I was killing him.

I stepped back, looking around me to see if I had attracted a crowd. I didn't; this sort of thing happened all the time, especially for me. Even the crowd of unfamiliar Pokémon gathered around the theater never turned around to observe the commotion. We were just regular white noise in a dying city.

Charmander looked up at me, not in shock or horror, or even apologetically. He was frowning at me, like a parent disappointed in their child. What was up with him? He gets his ass cheese-grated against the pavement, and he still persists with his cocky attitude. The dumbfuck was just _looking_ for trouble.

I took a step toward him again. The moment I did, his eyes started looking away from me, likely to avoid eye contact.

"She didn't mean anything by it," he whined. His voice was a baby's cry muffled under fabric- and its screams cut violently short.

"Who's '_she_'?!" I demanded, as I took another step closer.

"She was just scared, that's all. She wasn't trying to hurt me."

I heard garbled throat noises- the sound of puke staying in the back of the throat. The victim must have drowned in their own vomit. How was I hearing words? What sort of twisted voice box did Charmander have?

"What are you talking about?"

His large, blue eyes were focused on something else, something above me. By the time I realized this, it was already too late. A sharp hiss from behind revealed that the tiny lizard had a partner, one with reptilian skin and a venom capable of killing after a half an hour of agony. I didn't even have to turn around to know what I was dealing with, but I did.

Behind me was the historic insignia, the symbol of imminent danger clearly marked on her hood. It was the face of death itself, for those that looked upon it were certain to encounter it. Two unmoving eyes began searching the rotten depths of my soul, prying into the locked doors of my mind for a weakness. The mouth, though just a marking, seemed determined to consume me, to swallow my consciousness and cast it into the darkest regions of existence, forever forgotten.

There was something... different about the snake though. She seemed... brighter almost, as if emanating an aura of rarity found in sparkling gems. Her golden skin sparkled, reflecting every ray of light it came across, and directing indiscriminately in every direction. Even the blue eyes emblazoned on her hood glinted with an eery light, as if they were the eyes of a golden idol, staring down at its makers with callous detachment.

The god seemed to have cursed me with its malicious gaze. I tried to look the serpent in the face, to show her that I wasn't afraid of her poison, but my body refused to respond. Even my eyes were locked in place, forced to stare at death, as if mesmerized by its enticing form.

I wasn't being hypnotized. I was being paralyzed.

"That's enough, Arbok. She's learned her lesson," he stated in the most deadpan tone possible. His voice was the sound of flesh sizzling and popping when exposed to extreme heat. The bastard had probably thrown someone into a volcano to get that special sound effect, and it was working like a charm, if his goal was for me to hate him even more.

As if released from the grip of invisible fingers, I was dropped on the ground in a pathetic heap. My body made a muffled thud against the unforgiving material beneath me. My fall was unfortunately not painful in any way, since its purpose did not seem to be in delivering pain, but in casually throwing aside a piece of cloth that happened to stand in their way. I was being tossed aside, made less important.

That made them number two and three on my list of shit-lickers to painfully murder.

Trying to retain at least some of my pride, I quickly got to my feet, making sure not to look at Arbok's second face. Then I started running toward Swanna's Theater, shouting the same reply I give to every threat I've ever faced.

"Go fuck yourselves!"

**Author's Note: Though an interesting metaphor, Charmander's voice is not being compared to "deaths' cries" or anything figurative. Charmander's voice is _literally_ the sound of others dying.**

**Oh, and yes, his partner is a shiny Arbok that apparently knows Glare.**


	7. Chapter 6: Wartortle's Choice

The mistakes we make can never be undone. History's pages have been written with permanent ink, and our good intentions, our desperation, or even our determination cannot change this cruel fact.

But despite this, there is still enough blank space to write a happy ending. The future has an indeterminate form, and though we may predict the outcomes of our actions, the decisions we're given are still in the air. These choices are determined only by ourselves, not by abstract fate or even the lingering effects of history.

Allow me to explain: does a story's earlier events absolutely determine the story's future? No, of course not; it can take any direction at any time, even going so far as to defy the familiar structures of grammar, spelling, or even language. There is nothing that prevents a story from changing.

Yet, time and time again we find ourselves stuck in this mindset- believing that the past somehow affects the future. Its influence is only as great as we allow it to be. We are the future.

* * *

"I'm sorry, okay? Please, just wake up!" a panicked voice begged, only beginning to realize the consequences of his actions.

Oshawott knelt and began shaking what was once his healthy, conscious friend. His hands trembled as he began to softly sob, praying all those crippling fears would be relieved with a playful smile. Maybe his friend was just playing a game; it was all a mean joke that they could laugh off later.

I glanced around, making sure we were alone. "Hey, kid, we gotta scram," I whispered. "We don' wanna get caught or nothin'."

Oshawott looked up at me, clearly horrified at my suggestion. He pressed his face into the lifeless lump, trying to hide the fact that he was starting to cry. I wanted to go over there and cry along with him, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. Crying never solved anything. All it did was make you weak- weak like little Sealeo over there.

I'll admit- I was kind of shocked myself; everything just happened all at once. We weren't really thinking- none of us were. Maybe if one of us had just stopped and thought for a moment, then Sealeo would still be alive.

We were just playing behind the Munchlax Supermart, having fun in the darkness and solitude of the city's alleyways. Everything was fine until Sealeo noticed an abandoned syringe. There was still some liquid inside, and it looked just like "poffin". We thought it was left behind by some druggies, who probably forgot about it.

All three of us wanted to try it, but we agreed to let Sealeo have it because he found it first. Oshawott and I even helped him inject it, since his fins made it difficult for him.

That's when we noticed something was wrong. He started having trouble breathing, started beating his chest as if he was having a heart attack. He seemed to be in pain, but he couldn't express it; his upper body started to have a seizure. Then the rest of his body started flailing on the ground, like Magikarp after being taken out of water.

Then there was silence- dead silence. We knew what that meant.

"C'mon, kid, let's get movin'!" I urged as my keen sense of trouble set in. My prized tail began to shake, moving as if gaining a life of its own. It seemed determined to escape from me. Someone must be coming, which pretty meant either run and live longer or stay and face gangster brutality.

The crybaby was too stupid to realize this. Instead, he decided to question me.

"But- but Wartortle! What about Sealeo? He's not moving! What if we-"

"He's dead," I stated coldly. "We just killed him, that's what we did. You wanna end up just like him?"

I pointed a finger at the mass of lard, making sure he got the message. He didn't seem to. Oshawott's eyes never moved from the face of his old friend, searching for signs of life. The child was probably too stupid to check for a pulse anyway.

It wasn't as if I really cared if the seal was dead or not, but I hated to see Oshawott so sad. The guy was probably going to carry this guilt with him for the rest of his life. Hell, I probably will too, even if it was the dead guy's fault. Things like this have a habit of sticking around longer than they need to.

And so did Sealeo. He was a nice guy, but incredibly stupid. He wouldn't notice a social clue if it beat him over the head with a baseball bat. For that matter, he might not even notice his head getting smashed in at all, that's how dopey he was. If ignorance is bliss, then the mofo was probably in the fifth level of nirvana- cloud frick'n' ten out of ten.

Well, at least he died happy. Not everybody can say that.

Maybe he would have been happier if there was some real poffin. I've never tried the stuff myself, but I heard that could make you smarter or even more beautiful, just by injecting it. The stuff was impossible to come by, but it's a well-known fact that Candor and Essence, the two major gangs in town, had complete control over its market. Maybe if I joined one of them, I could get my hands on some...

"Wartortle?" a soft voice called out. He whispered my name with a strained voice, as if it hurt to talk. His red-rimmed eyes stared blankly at the poor creature but his lower lip quivered, telling me that he was far from removed. I guess he wasn't one of the lucky ones who just went numb.

"_What_?" I asked, layering my voice with obvious frustration.

He took a while to speak, so long that I was tempted just to walk away. "I- Do you remember when we used to throw the red ball in the air and he would catch it?"

He sniffed and wiped his nose on his puny arm. Then he lay down on the ground next to the corpse and began blubbering like a fool. He wasn't able to hide his tears anymore; they came like an uncontrollable wave, crashing down with tremendous force. He was overwhelmed with guilt, so much so that he couldn't even pick himself up.

I groaned. Why the hell did I even bother?

"We don' have time to talk about your stupid ball. I'm leavin'. You can stay here and tell them gangsters why there's a dead person next to you."

My tail was right- I could hear footsteps, and they were coming closer. It was only a matter of time.

"But... Wartortle! What if he's not dead? We can still save him if we take him to Chansey! She's a _doctor_!"

I bent down and looked Oshawott in the face. Snot was running down his nose like a spaghetti noodle, and despite the fact that he tried to close his mouth, his lips were shaking too much to do so. He had his hands pressed against his temples, rocking back and forth as death started to become real to him.

I brought my face close to his and spoke as gently as I could.

"Kid... doctors can't fix everything."

He lost it. "No... no... _no_! He can get better! Don't give up on him! _Please_! I want my friend back!"

I stood up and began to running in the opposite direction, I ignoring his pathetic cries. He was too young to understand these things, so there was no point in explaining. If he had any brains on him, he would grow some manhood and follow me.

"But I didn't mean to hurt him!" he wailed, as if that would change the fact that he was a murderer.

Stupid kid.

**Author's Note: "Poffin" is a substance injected as a liquid, and is quite different from the familiar biscuit-like food found in some of the Pokémon games. It appears to be thick and red, and tastes very bitter if ingested that way instead. It is extremely addictive, creating a dependence after two to twenty doses, depending on the size of the consumer.**


	8. Chapter 7: Whimsicott's Friend

In the wake of a ground-shaking death, more deaths are sure to follow. It's a simple principle: tragedy begets tragedy, grief begets grief. From the smoldering remains of a war-stricken land, fighting begins anew. Suffering exists now because it's existed before, just as life exists because of a previous life.

How does one break out of this curse? Is it possible to escape the effects of suffering?

No. Suffering is the occurrence of that which is undesirable, and we desire the impossible. That is why we suffer, and why suffering births more suffering. Death has its strangle-hold on our happiness and suffering because we desire to live, and that is why we kill.

Ironic, isn't it?

* * *

"It's such a shame. He had so much potential too," I said with a pensive sigh. I reached for one of the brightly-colored berries.

Flaaffy sat across from me, nodded his head in agreement. He shifted his position in the giant, puffy chair again, as if uncomfortable just being there. His demeanor suggested that he was unnaturally nervous, feeling trapped in the extravagantly-posh room. The way he sat upright, staring straight at my mouth, it was as if he were carefully reading my lips.

I tried to grab one of the berries, but the bowl just out of reach. Flaaffy pushed the bowl forward, smiling as he did so.

"I'm sure he was a wonderful person, Whimsicott," Flaaffy noted with cold removal. His eyes never moved from my lips. One of his eyebrows slightly rose when I finally selected a berry.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked, looking up at the colored sheep. "You two used to talk to each other all the time! I could have sworn you two were friends."

Flaaffy blinked a few times, but then quickly formulated a response. "We... we sort of went our separate ways. I don't want to talk about it though."

I nodded, holding the food at distance, as if wondering if I should take a bite out of it. "I understand. I don't want force myself in your personal life, after all. Hey, what type of berry is this?"

I held up the purple berry inquisitively, like a rock collector examining a new rock. I wasn't above trying new foods, but the berry seemed completely foreign to me, so much so that she just _had_ to ask. I had never eaten a berry covered with spikes before, much less on that wasn't squishy.

The sudden subject change startled the sheep for a moment, but he was visibly relieved that they were discussing a different topic. He shifted in his chair again and cleared his throat.

"That's a Colbur berry. It's slightly sour, but extremely good for you. Just don't eat the spikes."

He forced a smile, pulling back his lips to reveal his sharp teeth. I don't think I've ever noticed how frightening his smile could be, and if I didn't know him as a friend, I could have sworn those teeth looked like meat-eating teeth. That wasn't possible though; I knew Flaaffy well, and he had never touched a single piece of meat in his life. Even the thought of eating dead things or even seeing blood made him nauseous.

That's why he rarely went outside- because the streets were always covered with blood. Even way over here, deep in the rich side of town, there were rumors of a mass-murder of wealthy entrepreneurs. Even _I_ stayed inside most of the time, though I really should spend more time on the balcony. I'm simply not getting my healthy dose of daily sunlight.

I put the berry to my lips. Flaaffy leaned forward, apparently very eager to see if I liked this new food. I was about to bite down, but then thought of something.

"Hey, Flaaffy? Aren't you supposed to be getting some groceries at Munchlax Supermart?"

The sheep started scooting around in his chair some more.

I swear, that guy was a bundle of nerves. I'm not even sure how he ever found the courage to get up in the morning, much less venture outside and buy some food. The poor guy must have poked his head outside, saw something scary, and then ran back inside like he often does.

"Uh... well," he gasped nervously. He stopped looking at me and started fidgeting with the end of his tail. "I already went."

"Really?" I asked in a tone of disbelief.

"Yeah, the groceries are downstairs. I put them all on the table down there."

He nodded his head, settling on that answer. His eyes returned to my mouth, which was starting to creep me out.

"Oh, okay. Let's go downstairs and unpack those groceries then. I'm just dying for an apple right now."

Flaaffy suddenly jumped out of his chair.

"No, please, stay here," he pleaded. His tail started to softly glow, swishing back and forth in less-than-gentle strokes. He looked at me with a childishly mischievous expression, like a child telling an obvious lie. His light blue eyes continued staring at my mouth, as if my eyeballs were attached to my tongue or something.

The way he was acting- it could only be counted as strange, even for him. Poor fellow was probably so overcome with grief that he forgot to buy the food after hearing the news. Little Flaaffy didn't want me to worry about him, let alone worry about the groceries- that's just the sort of guy he is.

"Alright, Flaaffy, I'll stay. There's no rush, after all," I assured him in a comforting tone. "Let's sit down and eat some of these... these..."

"Colbur berries," he finished with a grateful nod of his head. "They're really good."

"Oh, well, I don't want to take them all away from you. Here, have some with me." I pushed the bowl across the table and gave him a friendly smile.

He glanced at the berries with such a look of contempt that I started doubting that the berries were "really good" after all. I had no reason to disbelieve him, however, since he was more than worthy of my trust. He was the very definition of innocence, sometimes to annoying levels.

"Sorry, Whimsicott. I just can't eat after hearing the horrible news."

I nodded, eying the strange berry I held in my hand, noticing that it was starting to look less and less appetizing.

"Okay, I can wait too, out of respect to him," I said, moving forward to put it back. "By the way, you still haven't told me how it happened."

Flaaffy put his hand over the bowl defensively. "No, please, eat. I don't want you to go hungry because of me."

"I won't go hungry," I replied, leaning forward to put the spiked thing back. "But thanks for thinking about me."

"No. Eat, Whimsicott."

I gave him an indignant look. "I don't want to, okay? Please let me make my own decisions."

He let out an exasperated sigh, as if I just made a ridiculous statement, but reluctantly moved his hand from the stack of berries anyway. Expressions of remorse briefly flickered across his face, quickly replaced by an expression of frustration. His eyes never moved from my mouth, which was quite frankly starting to annoy me.

"Whimsicott? If I mean anything to you- if our _friendship_ means anything to you- then please, eat one of the berries. I promise I won't ask anything else from you ever again."

My jaw dropped. He had really done it. He had used our friendship as a means to manipulate me. Flaaffy would never do such a thing; Flaaffy was a gentleman in all respects, save his cowardice.

Glaring at the sheep, I dropped the berry on the floor and kicked it with the side of my foot. I folded my arms and gave my best frown, making sure that he knew I couldn't be controlled like that. No one was going to control me- not even my best friend.

"I think it's time for you to leave."

My words hit him like a sack of bricks. He put a hand on his heart, as if he had been struck, gasping for breath. His gaze moved from my lips to meet my stare, silently pleading for a second chance. His blue irises revealed a deep pain and a dark secret so frightening, my glare quickly changed into a look of horrible realization. I just remembered that Flaaffy didn't have blue eyes.

"So...," he sighed, slowly getting up from his chair. "It's come to this."

He started walking toward me, grinning as he did so. I tried backpedaling away from the monster, but his legs seemed to move faster than mine.

He pointed his free paw at me. "I tried to help you, I really did."

His strides became more and more irregular as he moved closer and closer.

"Get away from me!" I shouted. "Don't take another step closer or I'll call the police!"

He ignored my bluff. "I gave you the chance to die painlessly, and in the arms of your best friend too. You deserved a gentle death."

His smile evolved into a toothy grin. "But now... now I'll have to kill you some other way."

**Author's Note: Yes, there are several characters in this story, and only some of them have been introduced. For the sake of clarity, the chapters contain the speaker's name in their titles.**


	9. Chapter 8: Ditto's Teasing

Our identities are lumps of clay. At first, we are rather malleable, bent to the will of every impression, unable to defend ourselves from outside influence, whose form is altered simply on a passing whim. As time passes, however, the shapes we hold become objects of discernible qualities, unique yet definite and understandable in their design. We become brittle beings, resistant to the hands of change, hardened and desensitized by reality.

But how do you change the shape of a brittle object?

You break it.

* * *

If I hear another annoying giggle or offer for a hug, I'm going to strangle that Igglybuff. Even if he doesn't have a neck, I'll find a way to choke him to death. There's only so much sunshine and lollipops I can stand, and the happy balloon had already crossed that line centuries ago.

I sighed. At least it was over now. No more baby smooches, no more stories about lucky rainbows, and best of all, no more of those hellacious bouncing noises. If I had known I would be subjected to that torture, I would never have tried to steal from that pink nightmare. For that matter, I would never have even approached his mansion in the first place. The house just seemed so big though... how could I resist?

I flexed my enlarged forearm, letting off a few sparks as I did so. Two exposed wires twisted and turned, moving as two tails attached to my lower back. My fur was bright yellow and black, like cautionary tape permanently on my person, like a last-chance warning to those foolish enough to try to touch me. Two large, talon-like claws scraped against the pavement as I walked, scratching at the city's foundation. Despite this, it seemed that my claws never dulled, sharpened in the face of adversity.

I could feel electricity coursing through me, as blood pulsing in its biological rhythm. Simply moving caused the air's properties to change around myself, bent to the will of my super-charged body. I was powerful. Extremely powerful. The ingot I held in my hand was glowing and sending out angry sparks, demonstrating how easily I could burn my enemies.

Yet, despite this, I had a great sense of fear, a sense that what I was dealing with was beyond me. Each electrical heartbeat felt like a wave of uncontrollable destruction, walled-in only by the levies of my hesitation. I was sure that if anyone so much as touched me, they would instantly die.

Needless to say, I walked as if moving across a minefield, flinching every time someone moved in my general direction. I've never killed anyone before, and I don't plan to anytime soon. There are some mistakes you can fix, and murder isn't one of them. Murder is permanent.

I had to wonder if the Pokémon I was imitating was a killer. His body certainly implied such a thing, since his natural defenses appeared to be sufficiently fatal. The Pokémon was chasing someone when I first saw him, so it was likely that he was hunting his prey. He wasn't exactly a fast runner, but when you have tens of thousands of unhindered volts flowing through your body, it certainly makes up for that fact.

Whatever. I didn't transform into this electric Pokémon because he looked fast; I chose him because he looked intimidating, and that's all I really need- power enough to be feared. I just need enough sting to scare, not slaughter.

I approached the Munchlax Supermart cautiously, making sure to keep my distance from everyone. Thankfully, most people seemed to avoid me, most likely out of fear. A few even gasped and ran in the opposite direction, as if I were the most vile creature in existence. I was becoming more and more curious as to what sort of person I had transformed into.

Stopping right in front of the glass doors, I began to have second thoughts about what I was about to do. It wasn't exactly dangerous, per se, but it seemed rather ridiculous the more I thought about it. The irony of what I was about to do was just killing me.

Just as my hand reached for the door handle, someone bumped into me from behind. My body jolted from surprise.

"Oh shit!" I exclaimed, whipping around. "Are you alright?"

I expected to see a roasted corpse smoldering in front of me, but instead, I saw a very apologetic pink sheep. My electricity must not have affected him.

"Oh, sorry. So sorry," he gasped.

He pressed his hands against his fluffy chest, as if flinching from an attack. He lowered his head respectfully and took a step backwards. Seeing his undignified timidity, I couldn't help but feel relieved. Not only was the pink fellow unharmed, but the sheep was also appropriately sheepish. That's when I realized how much fun it would be to frighten him.

"You _fool_! You will taste the pain of death!" I shouted, scaring the shit out of him, and myself a little bit too. My voice was rather deep, sounding almost like thunder. The sheep started stammering and shuttering, like a child after being told on his first day of class that "school" was another word for the slaughterhouse. Both wanted to run away, but were too terrified to even do that. Just like before, I had to hold in my laughter, or else accidentally transform back into the familiar pink blob.

"Please- don't hurt me," he begged, nearly collapsing on the ground. I couldn't tell if he was going to vomit or faint, but I knew I should probably let him off the hook before he did either.

"Dude, chill. It's a joke, man."

The way my voice echoed, it kind of sounded like a command from the heavens. He nodded, as if trying to obey this new order. Shakily standing up, and still nodding his head, he began to try to walk away, stumbling as he did so.

"Hey!" I called out in the most calm and pleasant voice I could muster. "Get back over here. I wanna show you something."

He looked back at me, casting a suspicious and worried glance over his shoulder. His body made motions away from me, but his legs moved him closer. It almost seemed to hurt him to get too close to me. His pink skin and cotton coat made him appear less-than-intimidating, but I knew better; he didn't even feel the electricity I released. He was tough, no two ways about it.

He moved into a safe proximity and stood there, staring at the ground, as if reading a novel scrawled into the pavement. I had to sigh at how unbelievable his act was. Here he was, even more powerful than this killer Pokémon, and still he acted like a total wuss.

"Listen Fluff, I'm going to go into the store and I want you to come with me. I need your help carrying some things."

His head shook vigorously but he never looked up.

"Oh... I could never do that...," he whimpered. "I have to go home..."

"Bullshit!" I declared with a theatrical shout. "You were on your way into the store when you bumped into me."

"No... no, I was just..."

He took a step backwards, hoping to end the conversation by politely avoiding me. His hands began fidgeting with the fur on his chest, pawing at the cotton fluff. There seemed to be something buried in there, like paper or something.

"Fluff," I began, resisting the urge not to roll my eyes. "You know-"

He muttered something, frowning and flinching as he did so. He glanced down at the bar of gold.

"Huh? What'd you say?"

He sucked in his gut and then locked eyes with me. For the first time, I noticed how dark his eyeballs were- almost as dark as the black paint I dumped on Smeargle yesterday. Good times.

"My name's Flaaffy," he spoke, gaining a burst of confidence. "And you're Electivire, aren't you?"

I gave Flaaffy an affirming head-nod, hoping he was correct. "Yeah, that's right. Good to see that you can talk without shitting yourself. So now that we're buddies and all that, you think you could help me carry some groceries?"

He shook his head and began bleating. "Sorry, but Whimsicott... I need to..."

I noticed he started stroking his chest fur again. That's when I made my move. Taking a giant step toward him, I quickly reached into his cotton fur and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He let out a tiny shriek when he realized what I'd done.

"Give it back! That's _mine_!"

"No," I said, sticking my tongue out at him. "I wanna see what you're hiding."

Holding the piece of paper high in the air, I unfolded it and began reading it out loud.

"_I want some apples, Oran Berries, Protein_... This is a shopping list, isn't it?"

Flaaffy lowered his head and sniffed.

"You're such a terrible liar, you know that?" I said, laughing. Just to get a reaction, I put the piece of paper in my mouth and swallowed it. I never expected him to go bonkers.

"What are you doing?!" he shrieked, startling me a bit. "Whimsicott wrote that just for me!"

Flaaffy stomped his feet angrily and pointed at my mouth, as if it were the real culprit. I had to hold my breath to stop myself from laughing, he was so funny. I gave him a pat on the back and began walking toward Munchlax Supermart, still keeping my eye on him.

"Calm down, Fluff; I've got the list memorized. I'm good at doing stuff like that. Just follow me into the store and I'll tell you what your master's instructions were."

He seemed genuinely offended. "She's not my master; she's my friend, okay?"

"Sure she is," I said with a bit more sting than I intended. "People pick their friends based on who they like to be around. Looking at you, she likes friends that shut up and do what she says."

I opened the glass door, inviting him into the building with a sarcastic flourish. "For the esteemed servant of Whimsicott."

"You don't know her," he said with a huff. He walked through the doorway regardless, casting several suspicious glances at me. As he passed by, I could have sworn he muttered his reluctant thanks for holding open the door.

What a gentleman.

**Author's Note: Ditto, once it has seen and transformed into an object / Pokémon, it can keep that form until it either laughs or chooses to change back. It cannot, however, transform based on memory alone.**


	10. Chapter 9: Marowak's Turmoil

Listen... can you hear the unspoken words passing through another set of lips? Can you understand the thoughts buried beneath an expression of skin and breath? Is it within your power to know the machinations of reason's fickle temperament?

Judge if you must, but do not fool yourself into believing you are right in doing so. All opinions are as temporary as the lives that preserve them. These beliefs we hold are undeniably flawed, validated only by our own experiences; we know nothing beyond our own world.

And that world is subject to doubt.

* * *

Something is wrong. Why can't anyone realize this?

No one remembers when this city was built; no one knows how we even _got_ here. With more than 500 members of society, not _one_ of them can tell me where we came from or what we're doing.

And these aren't just philosophical questions either. All of us, myself included, have no memory of a time before living in this dark city. We've grown accustomed to the way things are. But things aren't normal- they just can't be.

Why does the city dim every few hours? Where do our food supplies originally come from? Have the walls always been there? There are too many unanswered questions. Things aren't right. Everything seems to point to the inconsistencies of reality.

Like, what about all those roads? Why do they have strange markings on them? And what are they supposed to be used for? Every time I ask these questions, I'm given the same response- _that's the way it's always been_.

Well what if that's not true? What if this world has a beginning? What if this world has an end?

"You ready, Marowak?" a gruff voice asked, making it clear that only an affirmative response would be acceptable.

"Y-yeah," I said, taking in a gulp of warm air. I nodded my head, rattling the skull helmet I wore. "I'm re- I- I'm ready."

I hate stuttering over my words.

Druddigon snorted, his eyes flickering for a moment. "You're on after this fight, so make sure you're _mentally_ prepared too."

I exhaled slowly, processing what he had just said. Druddigon was counting on me to win, and I had to make sure not to let him down, no matter who I went up against. He was betting a lot on my victory- a little more than he should have, honestly. He probably saw potential in me, something very few people did.

I swung my club a couple of times to demonstrate that I was prepared to take on this new challenge. Honestly, I was just trying to prove my readiness to myself; I was sort of new at this whole "battling" thing. Reaching that necessary "buzz" of furious passion was still beyond me. Some fighters can get themselves psyched almost instantly... others need to test the waters of combat before diving in.

I hate water though.

Druddigon folded his long, spike-coated arms. "Make sure you stay fast on your feet; that's the most important thing you can do. Sometimes fights are determined by speed instead of strength."

"Y-y-yeah, w-wuh-well, only-ly some of the- sometimes..."

"I know you're under a lot of pressure," he continued, ignoring my statement, "So try not to think about what happens if you lose."

Oh, thanks a lot.

"... Just think about how much money we'll get if you win, okay?"

He gave me a hardy smack on the back, nearly knocking me over.

"Make your mother proud!" he teased, cracking a smile.

My face darkened with frustration. He knew that was a sensitive issue for me, but he kept bugging me about it anyway.

See, that's another thing. I have no memory of my mother- nor does anyone else, for that matter. Somehow, though, I have this helmet resembling a skull and a club resembling a bone. I want to believe they belonged to her, that she's always with me, but I have no idea if that's true. I've never seen anyone that looks like me before- I don't think anyone has. We're all so different-looking that I can't see any resemblance among any of us.

It's strange- no one can seem to remember having any parents or siblings, yet all of us know what they are. The concept doesn't seem foreign to us, yet... oh, I'm probably over-thinking again.

"Y-you know I- I- I don- don't think that's very f-funny," I spat out as best I could.

Before he could respond, Hitmonchan poked his head from behind the corner. "Marowak! Get yer ass mov'n'! De fight's about tuh begin!"

Druddigon gave me another playful smack. "Guh-guh-guh-go get 'em, Maro-man!" he shouted, poking fun at my painfully obvious stutter. Rather than feeling sorry for me, like some people did, he would focus on the humorous aspect of it. I suppose I appreciated that, in a way. It was better than being patronized, that's for sure.

With my precious bone club resting on my shoulder, I stood up as tall as I could and followed behind Hitmonchan. I gave a Druddigon a parting glace, only to find him rubbing his claws together, continually mouthing the word "money".

We silently walked down the long hallway, with our feet barely making any noise against the tile floor. Whether his silence was due to reverence or anticipation, I couldn't be sure. I was too nervous to speak anyway, what with having to face an unknown enemy in gladiatorial combat.

Footfalls began fading into a sea of white noise. As we moved closer, I could hear the crowd roaring, like rain pounding angrily against a rooftop. A lot of people came to watch the fights today; I'd better not let them down.

I looked up after realizing that I was staring at my feet again. Hitmonchan stood next to the door, face frozen with his trademark scowl. His eyes pointed me to the metal double-doors, gesturing me to enter as bravely as I could. Holding my most determined face, I did so.

Light burst in from the arena, blinding me for a moment or two. The crowd roared in delight, ready to see another furious struggle played out before them. Chain link fences rattled as excited Pokémon shook them impatiently, shouting for the next match to begin. A few were even climbing on the walls and standing on top of the cage to get a more aerial view.

I slowly walked into the arena and closed the door behind me, visibly shaking with anticipation. Only after I heard the locking mechanism did I notice who I was fighting.

A small leprechaun-like figure stood across from me, jumping up and down to psych himself up. He had a small bush atop his head which shook with every movement of his neck. His eyes were large, empty marbles that seemed to draw my attention every time he blinked. With his little beige fists raised defiantly, he bobbed and weaved past invisible punches, taunting me with his display of dexterity.

His mouth was stuck in what looked like a permanent sneer, with his lips twisted upward on one side. He stood at about two-thirds of my height, but he continued jumping to cover up this fact, reaching eye-level with every bound. His body boasted no apparent muscles, but I know this is rarely a good factor for judging opponents. He didn't appear to be a head-on fighter, but someone who would try and dodge and punish the slower characters. He might have had a few distance attacks, but I had the feeling that he would mostly stick to climbing the cage walls and jumping around.

Strategies crossed my mind, but most of them were impractical. I was grounded, and, judging from the vegetation on his head, at a type disadvantage. The guy was faster than me, no two ways about it.

That means I'll have to ignore Druddigon for now and just overpower him. All I need to do is deliver one hit...

My grip tightened around the bone, grimacing at the thought of what a full-powered blow could do to him. He was a just tiny little fighter, a tiny guy with something to prove. A crack on the head could seriously hurt him; it might cause injuries that even berries can't heal. I could kill him.

Hitmonlee, the other fighting-type judge for these fights, walked up to the cage doors and began his usual dissertation.

"Marowak, Pansage... if you attack the audience at any time during this fight, I will personally kick the living shit out of you. Then... I'll offer one thousand Poké to anyone who can recognize you afterward."

Nice guy. Really knows how to deliver a message.

I never understood how he could talk though. He doesn't appear to have a mouth anywhere on his face. Maybe he's like an octopus and his mouth is underneath him...

There I go over-thinking again. It's not time for thinking; it's time for fighting. Thoughts only get in the way.

Pansage pointed his beige paw at me, maintaining his sneer.

"Ael be teh one teh keek teh liev'n' shiet outteh yeh, nah 'im," he snarled with a strange, unrecognizable accent. His voice was whiny at best, but that was hardly surprising from someone so small. From what I could tell, it sounded like he was angrily taunting me. I was tempted to tell him that I couldn't understand what he said, but I knew that would be unwise. Replying would only bring my stutter to his attention, and it was better to remain silent and level-headed than to give my opponent psychological leverage.

Positioning myself in a fighting stance, I stood, listening to the crowd shout for violence. Their thirst for blood was never satisfied; it was never enough for one to simply "beat" the other. No, they wanted some real action, something horrible and graphic enough to go home talking about. They wanted to see what desperate creatures were capable of when forced to struggle for their lives. They wanted to see us in pain.

Pansage hissed and began jumping from side to side, pawing at the air in front of him. I swung my club above my head, challenging his attempts to psych me out. With a loud ring from outside the arena, and an animal roar from our throats, the battle began.

**Author's Note: Marowak is correct: there aren't any families in Verity. To the best of their knowledge, there's never a family or marriage in the history of their universe. The idea of such things, however, is not beyond their mental capacity to understand. More about this (and other strange inconsistencies) will be explored later.**


	11. Chapter 10: Daddy's Loss

What is a pawn? A pawn is the lowest common denominator, the utmost worthless form of life possible. They aren't unique in any way, nor are they powerful by any stretch of the imagination. They exist only to die, because a pawn taken from the board can never be regained.

What a sad life it is to live, never realizing your potential!

However, all is not hopeless for the lowly pawn. With proper care and love, the little piece can traverse the board and earn the right to royalty. It's their limitless potential and great number that make them a worthy threat.

This is us. Our value isn't in what we can do, but in what we, as a collective body, can do together.

But let us not forget; when we're removed from the board, there's no going back.

* * *

"Daddy?"

Her voice came as a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. I was so focused on the game we were playing that I had almost forgotten who I was playing against. Without moving my gaze from the battlefield, I grunted a reply.

"Hmm?"

I could hear her long nails tapping against the wooden table, proving that she hadn't broken that habit yet. It never really bothered me, in fact I loved hearing the sound of her pretending to play the piano. She was playing a song that only she could understand, and playing it only for me. That was something special.

"Daddy?" she asked again, hoping to capture more of my attention. A simple grunt wouldn't suffice. Or maybe she was having trouble hearing me.

I looked up at her, concentration officially broken. "What is it, Pearl?"

Pearl. That was a good name for her, though her mother insisted on the name Megan. Her mother got her way, of course, but that didn't stop me from giving Pearl her nickname. She was always so precious to me; I couldn't help but try to keep her sheltered from the world at times. Maybe I was just being a selfish oyster.

The right corner of her mouth rose slightly, indicating that her love for the name had not changed. I only wished the left side of her mouth could do the same.

She was leaning her forehead into the palm of her hand, with her fingers running through her dark, straightened hair. The creases on her face showed me that something was bothering her, a face that I had originally assumed was due to her intense concentration. The more I looked into her eyes, the more I could see some turmoil there.

I reached around the board and put my darker, chocolate-colored hand on hers. The special piano melody suddenly stopped, but the unpleasant expression started to slowly fade, which made me much happier. The smile stayed on her face, but her hand did as well.

"Daddy, it's hurting again- my head."

I felt like physically flinching at those words. They're not pleasant to hear, since it's my job to make it all better for her. That's what a daddy wants to do- take a way the pain and make her happy again. I could only offer her a suggestion.

"Do you need to rest? We can always finish this game later. I can go get-"

"No," she sighed, looking down at my hand and hers. "I think I can beat you before it gets too bad. It's still your turn."

She pulled her hand from underneath mine and looked up at me, trying to assure me that she was alright.

"Oh," I said in my best playful tone. "You think you can beat your father, the chess champion? We'll see about that."

I picked up a dark, horse-like creature and placed him on the edge of the board. The knight in shining armor, defined by the creature beneath him, was a lot more powerless the further away from the center it was. Sometimes I felt that way, like I was slowly increasing distance from my daughter with every move and was becoming more and more powerless.

Her gentle voice started speaking again, not about the game, not about her headache, but about something that caught me off guard.

"Do you think that chess pieces know they're chess pieces?"

She carefully grabbed hold of one of her white pawns and pushed it forward two spaces. Essentially, she was challenging me, but not necessarily threatening me in any serious way. I could react to the move at my leisure.

I thought for a while. "I don't think chess pieces can know anything... but if they could, I'd imagine that they wouldn't. The battlefield is all they've ever known, so it would be impossible for them to know any better."

I took my black pawn and placed it right next to hers. The two pieces couldn't attack each other, but were still enemies on the field. The battle would get nowhere if all the game had were two pawns standing across from each other.

I think I might have gone over her head with my explanation. She was a smart girl, but I sometimes forgot that she was only eleven.

"But they _can_ know, Daddy, once they're removed from the board. Then they'll realize what they're missing. Maybe, if you're a chess piece, escaping from the board that they've always known is the best thing ever."

She fumbled to grab her bishop. After finding the right grip, she forcefully placed it down and announced her next attack with a simple word.

"Check. You're in check."

Check: when a player's king is about to be attacked. Since losing the king means losing the game, the player being attacked must do everything in their power to stop the next move. I had to prevent the bishop from attacking my king.

So what did she mean by those statements? Was she referring to death? If so, then her logic was about to lead her down a very unpleasant path. People are not expendable toy soldiers; each life is valuable and precious, so long as they remain living. You can't love a corpse the same way that you can love your only daughter. I had to do everything within my power to prevent her from taking that next bold move.

"Pearl, where would you get such an idea? The army needs all of its soldiers, and not a single piece is worthless. The pieces rely on each other, so every removal is a great tragedy to the entire army. As long as they live on the board, each piece needs to stay safe for everyone's sake."

I pushed another pawn forward. I purposely positioned it between the white bishop and black king, blocking the attack.

Pearl sighed, grasping at her forehead again. She spoke again, but this time with a slightly more aggravated tone. "That's true. But does it even realize that it's being controlled all along? How can a piece ever know that it's living a lie?"

She retreated her bishop, but threatened to take the knight that I had left on the edge of the board.

I was immediately struck how her questions related to my work involving dreams. Some people never realize when they're living in a dream. Others know right away, but what are they supposed to do about it?

"You know, these are all very good questions, Pearl. If you want, I could always show you the answers to some of these questions during Take Your Child to Work Day coming up. I'm sure you'd love it."

I moved my queen- the most powerful piece on the board (and the second most important piece) forward into battle. Only after I had taken my hand off the piece did I realize my two errors.

The first error I made was that I moved the queen into battle too early. Once the queen is gone, it cripples the army. Moving too early creates only unnecessary risk to her.

My second error? I had forgotten about her pawn. Her pawn could capture and remove my queen on the next turn. It was my inattention to details that cost me big-time. And now I could only wait for the vicious attack after doing something so foolish.

Pearl huffed, indicating a sudden change in mood. Such things were not uncommon for her, considering her condition. She really didn't like me bringing up my job at home. "I don't want to watch you torture Pokémon, dad. Go make another daughter if you want someone to support your sick games."

Her fingers reached for the pawn, but lacked the dexterity to hold on to the small piece. Frustrated, she clumsily grabbed my queen and dropped it on the ground. This was her short, little temper-tantrum.

Too startled by her outburst to do anything, I watched as she struggled to stand up and keep her balance. Dizziness must have overtaken her, but she managed to stomp upstairs anyway.

_I knew I shouldn't have let her keep playing. The headache was probably getting worse. _

Taking my index finger, I flicked the top of my king's crown. The piece fell over, dead.

"I surrender," I said, trying to maintain a face without emotion. I began picking up the pieces, finally understanding why they were called pieces- because they could never become whole again. The two sides were just too different; they were destined to fight without cause and never resolve anything.

I bent down and picked up the queen on the floor, trying not to take her demonstration too seriously. Sometimes it was easier picking up the mess than addressing the problem.

Maybe it was for the best, her not going to my job. After all, there was someone there that she might recognize, an old childhood friend of hers, in fact.

_Banette. _

**Author's Note: Pearl and her father are both humans, in case you were wondering.**

**As you may have noticed by now, most of these chapters focus on the relationship between two characters. This is quite intentional, along with all of times I've restated the obvious themes of the story.**

**Oh, and each of those sections at the beginning of the chapter- they're not just there for context. The passages are written / spoken by someone or possibly multiple people. That means that anything you read is up for discussion, and the passages may even disagree with each other at times.**


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